Part 23 (1/2)
She smiled. ”You're nuts.” She stirred her drink and said, ”Anyway, the Americans, Europeans, and Asians are here just to make a fair profit, not to corrupt or undermine the government or the country. If that's what's happening, it's because of their their greed, not ours.” greed, not ours.”
”Was that in your company handbook?”
”You bet. And I wrote it.”
I looked out the window and saw the huge lighted advertising signs all over Saigon. If someone had told me thirty years ago that I'd be sitting here like this in the plush office of an American woman with an MBA from Harvard, I'd have recommended them for a psychiatric discharge.
I hated to admit it, but in some ways, I liked the old Saigon better; for sure, I liked the image of the younger Paul Brenner with an MP uniform patrolling the streets of Saigon instead of the older Paul Brenner looking over his shoulder for the fuzz.
Susan broke into my thoughts and said, ”So, you can see why I'm here. I mean, from a career point of view. I'm in charge of charming the foreign investors, private and corporate. Do you have any money? I could double your money.”
”You could triple it, and it still wouldn't amount to anything.” I asked, ”Do you have an office in Hanoi?”
”We have a small office there. You have to be where the political power is. Also, an office in Da Nang. The Americans left a great port facility there, plus a great airfield and other infrastructure.”
”I actually left the country in 1968 from Da Nang.”
”Really? Are you going there?”
”Maybe.”
”Did you get to China Beach?”
”No, I was anxious to get to Boston.”
”Right. If you get to Da Nang, don't miss China Beach this time.”
”I won't. So what about the Viet guy in the corner office?”
”You guess.”
”He's the son of an important government official, and he comes in only on Wednesdays in time for lunch.”
”Close. But he does have the contacts. Everything in this country has to be a joint venture, which means buying part of a company that the government confiscated from the rightful owners in 1975, or starting a new company and giving the government a share for peanuts. I mean, it's more complex than that, but there's nothing that can happen here without some government involvement.”
”Is it worth it?”
”It could be. Lots of natural resources, a hardworking, low-paid population, mostly all literate, thanks to the Reds. The harbors are terrific-Haiphong, Da Nang, Cam Ranh Bay, and Saigon-but the rest of the infrastructure is a mess. The American military put in some good infrastructure during the war, but whenever an area was contested, the bridges, roads, rail lines, and everything else got blown up again.”
”It's sort of like playing Monopoly, but everyone gets a hammer.”
She didn't reply, and in fact looked a little impatient with my sarcasm.
I thought about all of this, about Vietnam Incorporated. To the best of my knowledge, this was the only country in Asia where the Americans had a distinct business advantage over anyone else, including the j.a.panese, who the Viets were not fond of. The Soviets who were here after 1975 screwed things up, the Red Chinese weren't welcome, the Europeans were mostly indifferent except for the French, and the other East Asians either weren't trusted or were disliked.
So, in some ironic way, for reasons that were partly historical and nostalgic, and mostly financial and technical, the Americans were back. Ms. Weber and her compatriots, armed with MBAs, engineering degrees, letters of credit, and lots of hustle, were racing around Saigon on their motor scooters, carrying satchels of money instead of satchel charges of plastique. Swords into market shares. And what did this have to do with me? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
Susan said, ”Are you sulking about something?”
”No. I'm just processing. There's a lot to take in.”
She observed, ”If you'd never been here, this wouldn't seem so strange to you.”
”Good point.”
She looked at me and said, ”We won the war.”
I wasn't going to reply to that statement, then I said, ”Fifty-eight thousand dead men would be happy to know that.”
We sat in silence while I thought about AAIC. The place looked legit, and Susan sounded legit, but... But stay awake, Brenner. The bamboo was clicking in my brain again, and the vegetation swayed without a breeze. I looked at my watch. It was ten after eight. ”Time to fax,” I said.
”We'll finish our drinks and relax. They're not going anywhere.”
Ms. Weber seemed indifferent to my fate, but she was right; they weren't going anywhere. I asked her, ”Where's your apartment from here?”
”On Dong Khoi Street. South of Notre Dame, not far from the Rex.”
”Don't think I know it.”
”Sure you do. It was once Tu Do Street, heart of the red-light district.” She smiled. ”You may have seen it once or twice.”
In fact, I had, of course. My Vietnamese lady friend had lived in a little cul-de-sac, right off Tu Do. I couldn't, for the life of me, remember her name, but like a lot of the Viet ladies, she'd adopted an Anglo name. I knew it wasn't Peggy, Patty, or Jenny, or I'd have remembered it. In any case, I remembered what she looked like, and our times together, so I wasn't senile yet.
”Are you remembering Tu Do Street?”
”Actually, I was there a few times. Professionally. I was an MP on my tour of duty in '72.”
”Really? And how about the other time? Sixty-eight, right?”
”Right. I was a cook.”
”Oh... I thought you did something dangerous.”
”I did. I cooked.” I asked her, ”So you live in a red-light district?”
”No, it's quite nice now. According to the guy I rented it from, it was once called Rue Catinet, during the French time. It was fas.h.i.+onable then, but very sinister, with spies, double agents, murky bistros, high-priced courtesans, and private opium dens. It went downhill from there during the American period, then the Communists cleaned it up and named it Dong Khoi-General Uprising Street. I love their stupid names.”
”I vote for Rue Catinet.”
”Me, too. You can still call it that, or Tu Do, and most people know what you're talking about.” She added, ”My apartment was built by the French-high ceilings, louvered windows, ceiling fans, and beautiful plaster moldings that are crumbling, and no air-conditioning. It's very charming. I'll show it to you if we have the time.”
”Speaking of time...”
”Okay.” She stood. ”Let's fax.”
She went to the fax machine in the alcove, and I followed. She wrote something on a sheet of company letterhead, then handed it to me. It said, ”Weber-64301.” She informed me, ”That's my code so they know it's me, and that I'm... something...”
”Not under anyone else's control.”
”Right. If the number has a nine in it, it means I'm under duress. Am I under duress?”